


Slice of Life #1

by kinfic2



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 06:49:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4338131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinfic2/pseuds/kinfic2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place during Episode 108</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slice of Life #1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my LJ in 2009

BRIAN'S POV:  
  
“What the fuck are you doing?” I cannot fucking believe it. I come home with the mother of all headaches, courtesy of head-in-the-ass clients who couldn’t recognize a brilliant moneymaking ad if it fucked them upside down, to this? My $2,000 Gucci briefcase—I said _$2,000_ Gucci briefcase _—_ falls from my hand to the floor.   
  
“What does it look like?” The little shit doesn’t even look at me.  
  
Fuck! What did I do now? Worse, why do I care? Even more worse, who the fuck does he think he is and why do I put up with his crap? Okay, I _do_ know why, but that's beside the point.  
  
I take a deep breath and then another. It won't help to aggravate the kid. I don't need him running off in the middle of the night because I hurt his fucking feelings. I’d have the entire congregation of the Brian Kinney Is a Selfish Bastard Church, led by High Priestess Debbie Novotny, calling for my castration. I’m also not in in the mood for another rerun of  'The Three Faces of Justin'—angry, hurt, and disgustingly sensible. I am done with that shit.    
  
But like it or not, he’s here, at least until I can get rid of him. And although his newly discovered talents could put a pro to shame, he _is_ just a kid, as everyone readily reminds me, especially his highway-to-hell, in-my-fucking-face mother.  
  
Ah, Jennifer Taylor. How could I forget that life-altering moment when she barged into my office with his fucking underwear? If that weren’t bad enough, she had the nerve to give me a fucking check for his expenses, a fucking tape of _Yellow Submarine_ because it was the child’s favorite and instructions to make sure he did his homework. I'm responsible for him? Me? I don't think so. I’m not running a Boys Town and I’m sure as hell not Father Flanagan.   
  
I fucked her son and rimmed his ass. Big fucking deal. It was a simple barter arrangement. He wanted a first time and I wanted the nervous kid under the street lamp for... whatever reason. We both chose. End of story.   
  
People have to sink or swim in life with their own decisions. He's the one who pulled his homophobic father off me, screaming and yelling that he wasn’t going back home. He made a choice. He wasn’t going to live with the narrow-minded bastard. But, as usual, he didn’t think it through. Did he intend to live on the streets?  
  
He said he stood up to the prick because he was hurting me. It had nothing to do with me. Justin has this weird sense of... I don’t know what to call it. Goodness? Decency? He'd risk his own life to rescue a cat or a dog. That’s how he’s wired. So he decided to choose me over his father. I didn't tell him to, did I?  
  
I'll admit his bravado that night was pretty impressive. It was more than I ever did at his age. He had balls for someone so young, but I saw right through it. How could I not? I know what it’s like, trying to figure who you are, what you are. If and when you sort it out, then you think about where you belong and where you fit in _._ Old news.  
  
Anyway, this temporary arrangement is exactly that— _temporary._ I made damn sure he understood from the beginning that I’m not going to change who I fuck, how often I fuck, or who I am because he's living here. If he’s man enough to put up with it, good for him. If not? He knows where the door is. He knows how it works—it opens, closes and revolves. If he ever has a convenient lapse of memory, I’ll be more than happy to jog it for him and then kick his bubble butt out. Fuck! The shape of that ass isn’t normal.

I’m not going to worry about little Sunshine’s sensibilities. How the fuck did Deb come up with that name? So what if he has a thousand watt smile that sends electricity to my cock? And I'm not alone _._ A few queer dicks on Liberty Avenue also feel the zap, but that’s all they feel, at least for now. Like Thomas Edison and the light bulb, eventually the brilliant invention has to be shared. Hopefully, not for a while.  
  
I haven't moved. I've been too busy grinding my teeth in a herculean effort to stay calm. So far it’s working. My head might fall off from the pain, but I’ll be calm when it happens. My jaw feels as if it's going to break. “Justin...”  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
Fucking shit. That’s it. Time to pull out the big guns. Another breath. Christ, I’ve been taking so many deep breaths since I met him, I could teach a fucking Lamaze class. I loosen my tie, take off my suit jacket and unbutton my shirt. “I’m going to take a shower.” That should do it.   
  
Justin loves our showers together. During one of his many post orgasmic states of bliss, he blurted out that it made him feel Blue Lagoon-ish, like we were the only people on earth. Whatever. In his defense though, he is seventeen and an artist. Combine those two volatile traits? He gets heaven and I get hell.  
  
I received a big fat nothing in response. “Justin! _"_

“Jesus, Brian, can you please hang on for a couple of minutes? I have to wait for this. Go take your shower." He finally turns around. And fucking glares. “You do know how to do that, don’t you?”   
  
There was a certain nuance to his question, a sexual taunt that reminded me of Lauren Bacall’s line in the movie _To Have and Have Not_. ‘You do know how to whistle, don’t you? You just put your lips together and blow.' It went straight to my dick.  
                                                                                * * *                                                                                   
  
JUSTIN’S POV:  
  
I knew he would be in a shit mood when he came home. Don’t ask me how or why. I just did. His pissed-off tone left no doubt. When his briefcase, excuse me, his _Gucci_ briefcase—he’s such a fucking label slut—hit the floor with a thud, it sealed the deal. God forbid the world doesn’t stop revolving when King Kinney enters. Christ! He can be such a pain in the ass sometimes. Not literally. Although... Never mind.  
  
Well, this time his highness has to wait. Daphne’s mom gave me this really cool recipe for a souffle and timing is everything. I had no idea cooking was so precise. A minute more here or a minute less there and _poof_.  
  
I don’t have to look at him to know what he’s doing. He’s by the door, brows scrunched together. One hand is pinching the bridge of his nose to prevent or lessen a headache and the other is rubbing the back of his neck. Whenever I mention that his type of headache is stress-related, I receive a ‘who the fuck do you think you are’ stare. And when I say that according to the AMA, his obscene amount of alcohol aggravates the condition because it expands the blood vessels in his head, he smirks and makes a patronizing comment. He can be such an asshole. Oh, and if I offer a suggestion how to cure them, he gets all pissy and says I can’t do that because I _am_ his headache. Dickhead.  
  
The kitchen is kind of a mess. Okay, it’s a huge mess. I had planned to clean up before he came home, but I had a problem with the fucking egg whites. Talk about tempermental! If there were ever a match made in heaven this was it. Mr.Egg White, meet Mr. Kinney. The two of you should be great friends since you’re both fucking impossible.  
  
The thing is, I don’t cook or bake. I don’t play Suzy Homemaker to Brian’s Beefsteak Charlie. I’m just getting a little tired of his consistently non-consistent dinner food, and yeah, I admit I miss my Mom’s cooking. Sue me. Brian doesn’t give a shit if he eats or what he eats—no pun intended. He also has everyone suckered into believing his no carbs after seven bullshit. Not surprising. He could sell a dick to a lesbian for Christ sake.  
  
No one sees when he sneaks a taste of my ice cream from the freezer or grabs a handful of my nachos while we’re watching TV or ugh, double dips a fork into my mac and cheese on the stove. Those are the moments when the mask slips a little and the hot fuck and cutthroat advertising executive becomes just a man. Those are the moments only I see.  
  
I know everyone can’t figure out why he made an exception to his ‘never fuck anyone twice, never let anyone stay the night’ rule for me. I see the looks, the whispered conversations. I’m not stupid. They wonder what the fuck is so special about the blond, blue-eyed twink who came and was still here. 

_“And I’m here. Look who’s here. I’m still here.”_ _©Sondheim_  
  
I don’t have an answer for them. I don’t understand it any more than they do, and they’ve known him a hell of a lot longer than I have, especially Michael. It’s weird, almost borderline creepy, to think he and Brian have been friends for as long as I’ve been alive. That’s part of the problem. I always feel as if I have to double-time my life to keep up with all of them because they’re so much older.  
  
Michael also never misses an opportunity to shove the party line down my throat. _Brian doesn’t do boyfriends._ Really? Well, I have news for you, Mr. Heart-on-Your-Sleeve-Novotny. He fucking does. He just...he just doesn’t know it yet. Even more fucked is that Michael wants to be what he keeps telling me Brian doesn’t do—his boyfriend, his lover, the guy he fucks more than once. Keep dreaming, Michael, because that’s the only way it’s going to happen. He’s never going to shove his dick down your throat or fuck you so hard you feel it for days. You'll have to settle for your teenage coitus interruptus memory.  
  
Okay, that’s mean, but it’s true. Michael and Brian have a history, a very fucked up history, in my opinion. Brian loves Mikey, Mikey loves Brian, Brian wants Mikey to be happy but he’s jealous when he is, Mikey wants Brian to be happy but _he’s_ jealous when he is. They’ve been feinting and shadow-boxing for years. One of them should throw a punch, metaphorically speaking, and be done with it. Then they could move on with their lives and Brian could move on with me. Without Michael.  
  
I only have a few more minutes until the souffle is done. I’m so fucking nervous it’s not going to turn out right. That’s all I’d need, to have turned his kitchen into a disaster area for something that tastes like shit. I’d never hear the end of it. Christ! I can almost feel his anger. I wish he’d go take his shower. That’ll relax him enough so we can have a nice dinner and then my special desserts. He’ll feel _so_ much better.  
  
Maybe this cooking thing won’t turn out badly after all. I'll have to call my Mom tomorrow and get her jambalaya recipe.

  
                                                                       # # # #


End file.
